Last Glimpse
}} Doctor Isaiah Bhaskara was running out of time. Pulling himself through the halls of the Heavy Burden, he tried to ignore the sweat rising off of his skin and floating inside his helmet, he had to stay focused. Kholo had been a nightmare, the Covenant had ripped through them like paper, and the singular prototype in the mining vessel’s hold notwithstanding, the past decade’s worth of his work had been destroyed. They’d given the split-lipped bastards hell though, his Mantises had blown apart entire Covenant armored columns, reduced lance after lance to ribbons, but all his work meant little in the face of a glassing beam. Damned genocidal aliens. Gliding weightlessly through a bulkhead, he kept his mind on the task at hand; get to the communications relay, send out an SOS. As much as he wanted to make it open, let the closest human beings who were willing come to their rescue, he couldn’t. He had to make sure it was one of theirs, had to make sure the prototype was picked up, otherwise he had no doubts CALIFORNIA would have him quietly disappear. Isaiah couldn’t just be another casualty presumed dead in a glassing, much less let it be a lie to cover up his assassination in retaliation for failure. He had his son to worry about, Katia had left them, and his parents weren’t able to support themselves and a child on their own. After all decent housing for refugees was absurdly priced, megacorporations taking advantage of the downtrodden, forcing the likes of himself, roboticists at the top of the field, to accept work with the Office of Naval Intelligence. “Atmosphere at: Ten percent.” The ship’s Dumb AI broadcasted. He hadn’t bothered to learn its name, nor that of any of the crew. They’d commandeered the old Springhill-class, and relieved the CAA’s people from duty, no one was supposed to get hurt, but they resisted, and in the turmoil a plasma torpedo breached their hull. They’d made the jump anyway, random coordinates in accordance with the protocol, but the damage was done. They’d executed the poor souls, there was only so much oxygen, and he had to think of his son. He had to think about Abraham, not the men and women begging for their lives. They’d just been doing their job, they didn’t deserve to… No, he wasn’t letting himself go down that hole, not right now, he had to get through this, for Abraham. Sticking out his gloved hand, he caught the edge of the bulkhead, stopping himself before the door. He’d made it, now all he had to do was get out the signal and wait. Easy, right? Interfacing with the pad next to the door briefly, he overrode any kind of security keeping him out, and doors to the relay slid open. Pulling himself through into the room, he took in the view. It was cramped, filled to the brim with all the equipment needed to send out signals across the void. A single stool sat amidst it all, an undone strap across its seat. The older vessels skipped artificial gravity to make room for shit like this, which only made him appreciate the newer classes he was sure would come for them more. Gliding forward, he strapped himself down and got to work. Trying his best not to focus on his steadily shrinking oxygen reserves, mentally ran through the message, tuned the broadcast signal, and said a silent prayer. “Mayday, mayday, this is SINDRI, H-Y aboard, damage critical. Coordinates are enclosed. See you soon.” It only took a moment, he finished off the broadcast, sealed it with a nice encryption, and put it on a loop. Undoing the buckle, he afforded himself one deep breath as he gently drifted upwards. He thought about Abraham, letting memories of his laughing boy fill his mind rather than the woosh of an airlock yanking the limp corpses of those deemed disposable into the void. He’d done what he needed to, they all had. He had to think of his boy. Category:The Weekly